The Muesem.

Is it the quiet,
The dead of the night?
Oh, so may I ask of you,
A favour of your being.
Just be by, you see I've a vacant plot,
I sit here often,
Oh won't you stay?
Not long ago did I weep alone,
So sweet were my blues,
I tried my house into a home,
And oh, tired china, dim glass and heavy curtain,
I find here, by the window, I am alone again.

A crackle, the breaking of bone beneath feet in the garden,
The usual desire that you should be visiting me at strange hours,
Such is the thought that brings you not me.
Terror left my eyes just years before,
Oh vacant plot that sits in these glassy rounds,
Won' t you be the one to fill them?
To breathe life into a glimmering reflection,
I see wood, deep mahogony,
I see Gold, Oh Browns! ... I see ornate chains!
And a movement undetected.
Sir, have you taken my hand?
So cold that you are, I could have mistaken you for dawn's gentle breeze.

You see now, I am saving myself,
So simple it is when you have no desire.
But the electricity you pulse through me,
My need to create at your side,
Had it passed by me, I would have been but an empty, ornate shell,
A treasure lying upon the sands of another ocean.
But we would have ended up in the same room at some point.



And now, in ruins, my body lay beside yours.
Oh how the tourist come,
How they tap on the glass, how the children stare.
The guide, he fingers at objects, once warm in your hand,
He indicates the stare, he guides to the detail,
He works a thin point to the intricacy you left.
My eyes ache to my side,
Together we sigh,
You're broken; wired hand in mine,
A machine or two for life.
Oh, what have you made my dear?
Interest still in dusty eyes,
You smile that familiar grin,
Obscured by spectacles that light the sky.
You made it, Oh you made it.
The great inventor, don't you know?
And now we lie in wire, we lie for custom come.